


That One Question We Both Fear

by IndigoNight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, references to canon character death, the howling commandos stan bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: In the past, Bucky Barnes had a team, a group of friends willing to kill for him.In the present, the Winter Soldier sits alone in the dark and tries not to remember.Some other me, how'd we end up here?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Howling Commandos, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: BBB Special Events





	That One Question We Both Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fill for the [Bucky Barnes Bingo](https://buckybarnesbingo.tumblr.com) Flash Bingo "Flashback" square.
> 
> Lohmer and the future-Commandos' involvement in his death occurred in issue #4 of Captain America: First Vengeance, a few of the quotes are directly from that comic. Title from the song Some Other Me from the musical If/Then.

Metal fingers trace slowly over a face that is his own and yet not. Grainy black and white eyes are crinkled up in an expression that he has no idea how to replicate, an arm that was once flesh and blood slung around the shoulders of a laughing man in a crooked baret. Everyone in the photo is laughing, loose and comfortable. It’s disconcerting to look at something so alien and yet feel the hollow echoes of something… something missing.

He’d ripped the photograph out of some battered old history book in the dusty corners of a library months ago, only to shove it into the back of his notebook and forget about it. Until now, when he’s stumbled across it again and finds that he can’t seem to look away. There’s something tickling at the corners of his broken mind, something that hurts like a dull ache and gives him a nauseating sense of vertigo. 

_ “We were more than just a team,” stated James Montgomery Falsworth, formerly a brigadier of the 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade and member of the Howling Commandos _ , the text below the photo reads,  _ “we relied on each other, trusted each other. We were like brothers, really. After we lost Barnes, we- _

He can’t remember if he’d left the rest of the page and its unsettling words behind on purpose or not. He can’t remember how that sentence ended. He can’t decide if he wants to.

He knows the names of the men in the photo, knows where they were born and when they died. But it is just information, words assembled from files and museum displays. It is not memory.

_ He’s burning up _ , a voice says, faint and echoing from the disused corners of his dusty mind.  _ If Fritzie makes him work tomorrow, I guarantee he won’t last his shift. _

He slams the notebook shut and shoves it away from him, but even as he does so he sees dark skinned fingers wrapped around his metal wrist, feeling for a pulse that isn’t there.

_ He feels like he’s on fire. A sharp pain in his ribs. A tightness in his chest that makes him cough, harsh and dry.  _

He clenches his hand into a fist, struggling to shake off the phantom touch as he draws his stolen threadbare blanket tight around himself against the chill that he  _ knows _ isn’t real. The filthy mattress crunches and creaks beneath him as he shifts and even that creates unsettling echoes in his ears. 

There’s a muted beam of light piercing in through a hole in the newspapers that cover the window. It falls on the forlorn shape of his notebook, scattered across the floor where he’d shoved it. It illuminates a picture, one that is different but no less haunting. This one shows the same five men - minus the one called Bucky - but they are old now, gray haired and several grasping canes. They are grouped around a statue that depicts Captain America in a heroic pose. Their eyes are misty and smiles tight. 

_ We were like brothers _ , his mind repeats but they are no longer the flat words of a printed page, they take on life and a crisp British tone.  _ After we lost Barnes- _

“Stop it!” he snarls through grit teeth. 

_ Dammit Jimmy!  _

A waft of cigar smoke hits his nose; he presses his back against the flimsy drywall and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not him!”

_ Your mama named you James, didn’t she? _

He’s cold, but it’s not the bone deep burn of cryo, it is the crisp chill of fresh snow and sharp alpine air. Reality is shifting and sliding around him. He fights it, struggles to shove it away; he has learned that there is nothing but darkness and blood to be found in his memories. He does not want this. Not again. 

_ The air was cold, but the fire was warm. The small mountain alcove echoed with laughter and good natured ribbing, the Commandos grouped around the fire in a casual sprawl while they passed a stolen bottle of wine between them. _

_ His body felt tired, his feet throbbing and sore, his knuckles scraped and bruised. But there was a warmth and lightness in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the fire or the alcohol. He laughed with the rest as Dugan finished - yet another - ludicrous story about how he landed in juvenile hall- _

The sound is a shock, jarring and alien in its ease and warmth. It doesn’t tear at his throat, doesn’t taste like blood or bile. He hadn’t known he is capable of making such a sound; he wonders if he still is…

_ Dugan sat back with a flourish, stretching out across the hard packed ground as he took a long pull from the now half empty bottle.  _

_ Morita rolled his eyes and snagged the bottle out of Dugan’s hand. “Christ, you blow almost as much hot air as Lohmer,” he taunted, dodging out of the way with his pilfered drink before Dugan could snatch it back. _

_ “Yeah, well, he got what was coming to him, didn’t he?” Dugan growled, but there was no real menace behind the implied threat in his voice. Morita just laughed as Dernier shoved him off of the rock he’d been sitting on and stole the bottle in turn, muttering something in French that Bucky didn’t understand- _

Dernier called them savages, he thinks, he was disgruntled with their lack of proper respect for a good wine.

_ “Good riddance,” Falsworth cheered, lifting his battered tin mug into the air in a mockery of a salute. _

_ “Here here!” Jones agreed, clinking his canteen against Falsworth’s mug. _

_ “Who’s Lohmer?” Steve asked. Bucky’s head turned sharply, even though he already knew Steve was there, perched beside him on a fallen log, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. Steve’s eyes were bright, his body tilted forward in engagement, his cheeks tinted pink with laughter; it was distracting. _

_ But an awkward silence fell over the small camp. There was a subtle shift, like a ripple that spread around the campfire and landed on Bucky as all eyes flicked toward him. There was a hush, waiting for his signal, five pairs of eyes watching him expectantly as slowly Steve caught on and turned toward Bucky too. _

_ Bucky’s throat felt tight, even though he told himself that it was stupid. He shifted in his seat, tossing the blade of grass that he’d been toying with into the fire, just for an excuse not to meet Steve’s eyes. “He was an overseer, back at the factory,” he said, relieved that when he finally pried the words loose they came out bland and emotionless. _

_ “He’s probably a pile of ash now,” Morita mused absently. _

_ “Who knew nazis made such great pancakes,” Dugan crowed at nearly the same time. _

_ To which Jones responded, “gross.” _

_ Steve was still staring at Bucky. He wasn’t laughing anymore and Bucky found himself glad that neither laser vision nor telepathy were among Steve’s new superpowers. “What did he do to you, Buck?” Steve said, his voice soft in a way that was the opposite of calm. _

_ Bucky grit his teeth, his mouth pressing into a flat line and his shoulders hunching instinctively, just for a second, before he could force them back down. He stared down at his own clenched fists and carefully didn’t let himself twitch at the phantom pain racing up his back. “Nothing worse than what you’d expect,” he said quietly as soon as he knew he could keep his voice steady. “He was a bully, Steve. He liked to pick on me, that’s all.” _

_ “He beat you half to death,” Falsworth interjected, as though Bucky’s words had personally offended him. He didn’t even have the courtesy to blink at the sharp glare Bucky shot in his direction. _

_ “Would’ve done worse too if we hadn’t put a stop to it,” Jones confirmed, his teeth flashing in a vicious grin. Glancing around the circle, they all wore their own versions of that grin, sharp and dangerous and fierce, proud of themselves. Dugan and Dernier high fived. _

_ Something sharp and too hot twisted in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. He stood so abruptly that the log rocked and Steve almost fell off. Turning sharply he stormed off into the woods before anyone could call him back. _

_ He wasn’t stupid enough to actually go far. He stopped just around a bend in the ridge they were sheltering beneath and braced his hands on his knees as he took a deep, shaky breath. He resolutely ignored the way his eyes burned irrationally and forced himself back upright, reaching for his cigarettes with hands that shook. He fumbled with his matches and almost dropped them three times, unable to get one to light. The fourth time he did drop the little cardboard book, but before it could hit the ground, Steve’s hand shot into his field of vision and caught it in mid-air. _

_ Bucky very carefully didn’t start or shout the litany of curse words that flitted through his mind; he hadn’t even heard Steve follow him, though he really should be getting used to that by now,  _ goddamn supersoldier _. _

_ Steve didn’t say anything as he struck a match and held it out for Bucky to light his cigarette. He watched silently while Bucky took a long drag and didn’t comment on the fact that Bucky was stubbornly not looking at him. In fact, with a surprising display of patience he waited until the cigarette was half gone and Bucky’s hands had stopped shaking before he spoke. _

_ “Why does it bother you so much?” he asked; and damnit Bucky can’t blame that on the serum, Steve had always been too smart for his own good. _

_ And worse, Bucky wasn’t sure he had an answer. He definitely didn’t have one that Steve wanted to hear. He stalled by taking his time flicking the ash off of the tip of his cigarette, breathing the smoke out of his lungs slowly in a hazy white cloud. _

_ “It was stupid of them,” he said at last, lacking anything better. “They could have gotten themselves killed.” His breath caught in his chest, for just a second, and he shoved away thoughts of a cold metal table and leather straps. “Or worse.” _

_ Steve considered that, half turning to look back over his shoulder in the direction of their camp; Bucky could just barely hear the sound of the Commandos starting up the chorus of a bawdy song. “They didn’t though,” Steve pointed out rationally. “And it doesn’t seem to me like they regret it.” _

_ Bucky snorted, stubbing out the cigarette with the heel of his boot a little too firmly. “Yeah, well, I told you, they’re all idiots.” He considered another cigarette, but his ration was starting to run low and Steve still had his matches. _

_ Steve crossed his arms over his chest, examining the skyline through the gaps in the trees absently. “You know, after what happened at the factory you probably all could have gotten honorable discharges,” he mused. _

_ Bucky snorted, scuffing pointlessly at the cigarette stub again for lack of anything better to do. “I think you’re over estimating the army,” he muttered. _

_ “Maybe,” Steve shrugged. “But my point is, they didn’t have to turn around and come right back out here.” He uncrossed his arms and reached out to grip Bucky’s shoulder; for just a second, it was foreign, hand too large, angle too high, and Bucky almost flinched. “They didn’t agree to it because I asked them,” he said, voice low but painfully earnest, and with just a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his lips. _

_ Bucky raised an unconvinced eyebrow at him. _

_ “They did it because they knew you would.” The way Steve said it, like it was an absolute inalienable truth, settled hot and uncomfortably heavy in the pit of Bucky’s stomach and he didn’t want to meet Steve’s eyes but he found he couldn’t look away. _

_ “Bullshit,” Bucky huffed anyway, because he  _ had _ to. _

_ “Want to go ask them?” Steve challenged with a raised eyebrow of his own. “They might be following me, but they love you.” _

_ For a second Bucky’s throat was too tight to speak and he had to look away. “I don’t deserve that,” he muttered. _

_ Steve just grinned and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure they don’t give a shit. You’re stuck with us, all of us, whether you like it or not.” He slung his arm fully around Bucky’s shoulders and dragged him in for a sideways hug with enough strength that Bucky wouldn’t have been able to resist even if he’d wanted to. “Let’s get back over there before they bring the entire third Reich down on our heads,” he teased, turning and starting to propel Bucky back toward the camp. _

_ Bucky went because he didn’t have a choice, but also because for all that the bubble of warmth in his chest felt too big to contain, the tentative belief that the team - his team - felt the same was beginning to settle into his bones. _

He is  _ dying _ . The heat in his chest is too big, too much, pressing against his insides, threatening to burst through his sternum and break his ribs. He can’t breathe. He can’t see through the film of tears that have filled his eyes. His hand scrabbles uselessly at his chest, clawing for something that isn’t there.

He doesn’t understand.

_ I don’t deserve that _ , he had said. He couldn’t have possibly known, so long ago, what he would become.

The one called Bucky had loved, had  _ been _ loved. He isn’t capable of that. It is another thing that they had cut out of him when they took flesh and bone, leaving him with only metal and wire.

Slowly the pain and tightness in his chest eases. He blinks his burning eyes and the lingering tears clear. Reality settles back around him, hollow and gray in shadows compared to the vibrant mountain forest still imprinted on his mind.

He stares at the four walls around him, dingy paint peeling and chipped plaster. He runs his hand over the bare, stained mattress beneath him and the frayed, washed out blanket draped over his legs. He counts the guns, knives, and other weapons laid out in a neat line on the patchy carpet from when he’d cleaned them earlier. The squashed, stale protein bars. The discarded gloves and baseball cap.

His gaze lands on the journal, still lying there innocuously. There is the photo of the Howling Commandos with Captain America’s memorial, wrinkled faces that are both achingly familiar and terrifyingly foreign winking up at him. On the facing page is a neat, precise handwritten list.

Name.

Date of birth.

Date of death.

Location of burial.

Five names. Five faces. Five dates. Five gravestones.

With a shaking hand he reaches out and closes the notebook; carefully this time, reverently. He tucks it back into the shabby backpack with the rest. He lays down on the stained mattress, pulls the frayed blanket up over his shoulder. He rests his flesh hand on the grip of his favorite gun.

He closes his eyes and feels the bitter dampness of tears sliding into his tangled hair. He wraps his metal arm around his stomach, though it does nothing to sooth the hollow ache that has taken up residence there. He wills himself to sleep, praying that he will stop remembering.

He cannot love, but, apparently, he can grieve.


End file.
